Words and strength fail me, so I keep to the point.
“We found a good spot to throw the ball. There were a lot of people picnicking, so we had to find a space to ourselves. We threw the ball a few times and—”
I can remember their faces like it was yesterday, especially their smiles. For a few years, I blamed them for my brother’s death. Hell, sometimes I still did.
No one else’s fault, I thought again. No one but your own.
Of course, that wasn’t quite right either. My brother’s death was very much the fault of someone else.
Numi waits with half-closed eyes, breathing easily, legs stretched before him. The half beer gives me an instant buzz. So pathetic.
“There were two girls, two cute girls. One of them had sprained her ankle. The other was helping her over to the restrooms. I asked them what happened. The one girl, the blonde, had stepped on a tree root, rolled her ankle. I helped her into the bathroom. I then offered to get her some ice from some picnickers nearby.”
I took another draw from my beer. I could not meet Numi’s half gaze now. Instead, I studied a flashing neon advertisement in the window nearby.
“I went and got the ice.”
“And where was Matt?”
“He was looking for our ball.”
“Where?”
“In the woods behind the park.”
“How did the ball get there?”
“I threw it,” I say.
“You threw it into the woods?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I—” but the words don’t come. They can’t come. I’ve locked them up for so long.
“You threw the ball into the woods to buy yourself some time with the girls,” says Numi.
I don’t nod at first, but finally I do. I can feel the weight of Numi’s stare. No longer are his eyes half-closed.
“What happened next, Jimmy?”
I cover my eyes with my hands. The tears are coming freely now, down my cheeks, down my hands and wrists and forearms. I can’t speak. The words are gone as I recall again for the millionth time the panic, fear, and helplessness as I searched for my little brother, searched and searched, until my voice was hoarse. Others in the park had searched, too, and soon the police and my mother had shown up. A massive search party turned up nothing. Many heart-wrenching days would pass before we received the news we were most dreading: Some hikers had found his murdered body miles away in Laurel Canyon.
His desecrated body with the massive figure “8” carved into his little chest.
It’s then that I realize that Numi has gotten up and come over and wrapped his forearm around my shoulders, and he holds me like that as I continue weeping into my hands.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
My instincts are off.
I can feel it. Been out of the game for too long. Been sick for too long. Solving a crime that reaches down through the decades is a lot to ask of a guy who’s living on borrowed time. I need the police report. And I need Detective Dobbs’s help.
Which is why I’m back in the conference room, this time with Numi by my side instead of in the hallway. He’s my note taker and support system. I’m also hopped up on caffeine.
Numi has already helped me look the best I can. Earlier, I let him trim my hair and help me into my freshly dry-cleaned suit. I even let his expert fingers knot my tie. I persuaded him to apply Preparation H around my eyes to tighten up the bags. This is a trick that everyone who works in Hollywood knows. As Numi applies it, he asks how I know about this trick. I tell him I saw it once on Oprah. He next asks who the gay one is. I tell him to shut the hell up as he grins.
On the way to the police station for the second time in one week, I down five espressos from a local Starbucks. Now that I look a little less like death warmed over, I wait impatiently in the conference room for Detective Dobbs. Except my hands are shaking from the caffeine and my stomach is queasy from all that espresso.
Come on, dammit. Where are you?
If I want Dobbs to help me, I must appear better. I must be up to the challenge, so to speak. The caffeine is helping. Any other day, getting dressed up and having my hair cut would have put me in bed for hours. So, yes, I know I’m living on borrowed time. Which is why I’m relieved when the detective finally strolls in. I see he has Olivia’s file with him. So far, so good.
“Thanks for meeting with me again, Paul,” I say, perhaps a little louder than I had intended. The idea was to make him believe I was healthy enough to be involved in the case. Not blast him out of his chair.
“How you feeling, Booker?” he asks, settling in his chair across from us.
I hold my smile and say the only thing that will get me the file: “I’m feeling better, Paul. I’m taking new medications now and they seem to be helping.”
“New medications, huh?”
“Yes.”
He nods and takes me in, his eyes moving over my face. Something is setting off his cop instincts. Perhaps he senses my lies, or my weakness. Any good cop can read anyone like a book. It’s what they do. It’s what I do, too. I keep smiling.
“You look better.”
“I feel better.”
“Unless you’re faking it.”
“I’m hurt.”
“No, you’re desperate.” He pauses and looks from me to Numi, then says, “I looked into your brother’s case, Booker. I think you’re onto something. I think we might need you.”
I nod and wait.
He pushes the file in my direction. “I want you to use the copy machine behind me and accidentally make a copy of this file.”
“I do tend to be accident-prone these days.”
The detective almost smiles. “It’s against policy for me to give you the file, as you know. But…” He raises his hands.
“Accidents do happen,” I finish.
I do not reach for the file because my hands are shaking badly. I do not want the detective to see how bad off I really am. His sudden change of heart might just swing back the other direction.
“Now, I’m going to leave my office and get a donut,” he says, standing. “I am, after all, a cop, and that’s what cops do when not chasing the bad guys. It’s in the handbook.”
“Right next to how to grow a regulation cop mustache.”
He shakes his head. “Always with my mustache. Anyway, I expressly forbid you to use the copy machine located directly behind me. I also expressly forbid you to press the green button and wait ten seconds for it to power on.” He stands. “When I come back, I want you clowns gone. And Booker?”